


What to Do When Your Car Conks Out

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Classic Cars, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9964136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: Vignette-style Charlie/Meyer 1950s AU, because dammit I want to write cheesy 50s tropes and nothing can stop me





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the first time, I don't have an entire plot arc planned out and I'm just going to see where the vignettes take me. I honestly just felt like writing the OTP with lots of tropes, lots of 1950s aesthetic porn, and classic car-related shenanigans. Interpret "shenanigans" as you will.

Charlie lingered outside the mechanic shop. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling smoke in long tendrils, as he pulled the cigarette from slightly parted lips. Cars ambled down the road, bright sunlight glinting off chrome, with no one in any great hurry on a warm afternoon. He watched a Plymouth—powder blue, crisp white top, shot through with sparkling chrome—turn the corner by the library and disappear out of sight, the driver oblivious to the simple freedom of a left-hand turn. 

He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the door to the garage. They said his car wouldn’t be ready until Monday, but he thought he’d check, just in case. Sure, it was only Wednesday, but Charlie missed his baby. And it was his car, so that meant he was entitled to visit and check up on her, right? Repairs or not, he didn’t like leaving her with strangers. 

He flicked the cigarette to the sidewalk and rubbed it into the pavement with the toe of his boot. Mind made up, he paused only to check his reflection in the glass-paned window of the neighboring laundromat. It didn’t matter how much pomade he used, there were always a few curls that popped out of place, springing in their own direction. With a sigh, he tangled his fingers through his slicked hair, yanking until each strand was back in place. He wiped hair product onto the thigh of his jeans, making one last pass with his fingers along his temple. 

It was just the mechanic, but he couldn’t go around with his hair all wrong. 

Charlie shoved the door to the garage with his shoulder. The smell of oil met him instantly. The clank of metal mingled with radio in the corner, underscoring “ _have you ever passed the corner of Fourth and Grand, where a little ball o' rhythm has a shoe-shine stand_ ” with clatters and clinks and the hum of an engine brought back to life. 

But Charlie took no time to look around. In truth, cars didn’t interest him that much; he only had eyes for one. 

And there she was, parked in the back corner, hood up. 

He hurried towards her, dodging a cherry red Chrysler up on blocks and an abandoned can of oil on the floor. “Hey,” he mumbled, running a hand along her side. He cocked his head, glancing inside her open hood. It was hard to tell if the repairs had been made yet. “They takin’ good care of you?” 

“Can I help you?”

Charlie jumped at the voice—high, sharp, pleasantry hiding a hint of accusation, either because Charlie wasn’t supposed to be there or because he’d just been caught talking to his car. 

“I, uh—It’s mine,” he explained, gesturing to the car as he turned. “I’m just checkin’ up on her.”

The mechanic raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a rag that hung from his belt loop. It didn’t make much of a difference though. His broad hands were still covered in grime, dark as his sharp eyes. “This may come as a surprise, but we do know a thing or two about cars here. It’ll be fine.” 

Charlie scowled. “Well you can’t fault a fella for making sure!” he snapped. 

The mechanic didn’t say anything, but he smirked in a way that said he _could_ and _did_ fault a fella. He stepped past Charlie and looked under the hood. He was little, barely coming up to Charlie’s chin, but he sure didn’t act his size. 

Charlie couldn’t put his finger on it, but he seemed familiar. He was a young-looking guy, still a little baby-faced, but his expression seemed years older with intent lines and a hard stare. The sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up past the elbow, stretched taut over muscles too firm for a guy that small. Dirt, oil, and a light dusting of new, dark hair covered the lean, rope-like muscles of his forearms. 

Charlie cleared his throat. “You, uh—d’you go to Westbury?” He looked too young to be out of high school; Charlie figured that’s where he knew him from. 

“Mhm,” he answered without looking up from the engine. “You and your pals are the ones always hanging around back, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we—hey, how’d you know that?” 

The mechanic didn’t answer at first. He just pointed to a workbench with a greased hand, then turned his palm up. Charlie stared at his hand in a moment of confusion, then to the bench, and when it clicked, he hurried to grab a can of oil from the table. 

“I walk to school. You’re hard to miss,” he said finally, firmly. “You could use a new valve spring compressor. And some tune ups in here, as a precaution.”

Charlie shifted to his other foot, squinting under the hood thoughtfully. The mechanic continued to rattle off his suggestions, more to himself than to Charlie. All the same, Charlie didn’t want to seem like a dunce, so he nodded along and pretended to follow the conversation. In the pause that followed the explanation, Charlie tugged the bottom of his jacket. “Well, it’s, uh—real swell of you to fix her up for me.” 

The guy shrugged. “It’s a nice car.” He wiped his brow with his forearm, leaving a streak of grime along his hairline. 

Charlie grinned and patted her fondly, trailing his palm along the blue finish. “Yeah, she took me a while, but it was worth it.”

“What do you mean?” The mechanic wiped his hands again on the black-stained rag, gaze intent on Charlie’s engine. 

“Just savin’ up. You know, doin’ odd jobs and all that. I know a guy in the city, got her for a good price once I had enough.” He didn’t usually go into much detail about how he got the car. He’d had a job for a while, working in a little shop from the end of school until close, but he couldn’t keep it. He didn’t have enough saved yet, so he took to doing odd jobs around the neighborhood—sometimes running errands, mowing lawns, helping a neighbor around the house. And if some housewife was short a pair of earrings or her husband couldn’t find the watch he’d left on the coffee table, well, who ever gave him a second thought? 

To tilt the subject away from his odd jobs, Charlie craned his neck to glance around the garage. “Any of these yours?” he asked with a gesture. He figured he should leave the guy to his work, but Charlie didn’t want to go. His hip was magnetized to the side of his car and he wasn’t in any hurry to pull himself away. “That one’s pretty nice,” he said, pointing to the Chrysler with no wheels. 

The mechanic glanced over and scoffed. “ _That_ one? Runs smooth as silk, but that paint job? Too garish.” He sighed. “Anyway, I don’t have a car.” 

“Well that don’t seem fair,” Charlie answered. The guy seemed to know more than most people; he looked real natural bending over the hood with that focused expression. It didn’t seem right that all kinds of ignorant people got to drive all over the place, and he didn’t. 

The mechanic straightened up from beneath the hood, a wry smile under all that sweat and dirt. He looked at Charlie for what seemed like the first time since they began their conversation. “I’m still saving. And looking for the right one.” 

Charlie beamed. “Hey! How’s about this? You get her all fixed up by the weekend, and you and me take her out for a spin? You can drive and all, anyplace you like!” He was already thrilled with his brilliant idea. He’d get his car back faster, have her in time for the weekend, and they’d all go home happy. 

The mechanic turned away again. “I don’t think that will work.” 

Charlie’s face fell. “Why? All them repairs you mentioned gonna take a long time?” Sinking disappointment settled in his stomach. He liked having the freedom of knowing she was parked right out back, that he could get in and go anytime. What was he supposed to do on a Friday night, walk? Not only would he be stuck at home all weekend, but what if it took even longer than expected? What if she wasn’t even ready by Monday?

“No, I just—” He faltered for a moment, glancing around the garage. “Look, there are other customers to take care of first. That’s all. Your car will be ready for you Monday.” 

Charlie tried not to look too dejected, but he could feel it in the sag of his shoulders. Still, he wasn’t out of ideas yet. “Alright, listen—uh, what’s your name?” 

“Meyer.”

“Listen, Meyer—you sure? I mean, I’m offerin’ you… She goes real fast and I don’t know, if you got a girl or somethin’—do you have a girl? Anyway, if you wanted to borrow it one time, just once, for anything like that—” 

Meyer blinked at him in surprise. “No. Thank you. I don’t—I really don’t need—” he stammered, a little flustered, but it didn’t take long before his face composed itself into a stony expression. “You’ll have your car back on Monday.” 

The mechanic—Meyer—turned back to his work, but Charlie stepped easily between him and the car, catching his eye so he couldn’t avoid him. “You sure there’s nothin’ I can do?” 

Meyer’s eyes widened a little. He swallowed and shook his head. “No.” 

“Well if that’s the way it’s gotta be…” 

Meyer still didn’t cave, not even with Charlie’s heavy sigh and downward glance as he stood propped against the hood. Fine. Monday. With anybody else, Charlie might have pushed his luck further or even gotten rough about it, but despite his height, Meyer looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to clock him in the jaw with a wrench. And Charlie liked his jaw. He had no intention of getting it broken. That’d be even worse than having no car. 

With a heavy resolve, Charlie turned his back on Meyer, tracing circles against his car. “See you Monday, okay?” he murmured, giving the left headlight a pat. “And you—” he said, with a finger under the mechanic’s chin, “—you take good car of her, alright?”

Meyer smiled in a small way; Charlie couldn’t tell if it was genuine or mocking, but at least it was something. “If you want to get her back with the brakes intact, I suggest getting your finger out of my face,” he said coolly, smile unfaltering. 

Charlie dropped his hand faster than he’d ever listened to anybody before and Meyer chuckled. “What’s her name?” he asked, eyeing the car instead of Charlie. 

“Bambi.” 

“ _Bambi_?” 

“Hey, what’s wrong with that, huh?” Charlie snapped. He’d risk the wrench or the faulty brakes; _nobody_ mocked his car. He tried to do the guy a favor, and this was the thanks he got? “It’s a good name! Deers are fast and graceful and all!” 

Meyer’s sooty eyebrows were creeping towards his grease-streaked forehead, his lips quirked into a smile that was definitely genuine and definitely mocking. “You know, my sister likes that movie.” 

“Yeah?” Charlie said, his face brightening. 

Meyer nodded. “She’s eight.” 

“At least somebody’s got good taste…” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning one hip against Bambi’s bumper.

“You know,” Meyer said, slowly, “if you stand there all day, I can’t get your car finished for you.” 

Charlie’s eyebrows dipped into a V. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you get this done sooner than you thought—Just know my offer still stands, alright? Her and you, fast as you want, anywhere you want.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Meyer answered, in a tone that said I-will-not-keep-that-in-mind. By way of dismissal, he nudged past Charlie to peer around her engine once more. Ignored and able to take a hint, Charlie thanked the mechanic, buried his hands deep in his pockets, and trudged back onto the street. 

Out on the sidewalk, he turned his collar up against the breeze and lit another cigarette. He kicked a pebble down the street as he walked home, mind filled with thoughts of the steering wheel beneath his hands, his foot hard on the gas pedal, and the Southern State Parkway speeding by. 


	2. Chapter 2

September dew clung to the blades of grass beneath his shoes as Meyer crossed the school lawn. The sun hung hazy in the sky, shimmering weak autumn rays down on students who milled around with the dreary fatigue of Monday morning. There was faint chatter all around. Girls in skirts with their hair pulled back giggled to their friends about the weekend. A group of rowdy boys whooped and hollered, showing off by trying to see who could climb the highest up the flagpole without slipping. Nobody managed to do more than a few inches, until a harried teacher in round-rimmed glasses told them off and waved them away. 

Benny walked beside him, like they always did on their way to school. He had his own quest that morning—deriding the Dodgers for their crime of trading Cal Abrams to the Cincinnati Reds. “I’m tellin’ you Meyer, it just ain’t fuckin’ right.”

Meyer smiled. “You should write them a strongly worded letter,” he said, even-toned, smirk unfurling at the corner of his lips. 

Benny snorted. “Yeah, I’ll give ‘em a few strong words, alright. ‘Up yours!’ How’s that?” 

“You’re off to a good start. Might need a little work, though,” Meyer said wryly. 

“Just as well, ‘cause I got more where that came from.” Benny spat in the grass, waving his hand in anger at the whole situation. “See, ‘cause a guy like that, he’s a valuable player, and those clodhead managers ain’t seein’—”

“Hey! Hey, kid!—Kid, wait up!” 

Meyer stopped in his tracks. He slung an arm out, catching Benny in the chest and silencing him. It was definitely too early for this. He pivoted, turning towards the sound with a braced sigh. 

The boy from the garage was jogging at them, waving. It was hard to miss him and Meyer could feel eyes turn to watch the spectacle. 

He looked much the same as when Meyer had seen him last—the same dark jacket hugging his shoulders, denim jeans turned up at the cuff, scuffed boots slapping wet earth as he slowed, trotting up to them. Meyer shifted his books against his hip; he himself looked a little different, now that he wasn’t covered in grease and wearing a dirty jumpsuit. Maybe he could pretend to be someone else, avoid it altogether. 

On his right, Benny popped his gum, snapping it between his teeth. He raised his eyebrows at Meyer, who only shook his head by way of explanation. 

Charlie smiled, broad and easy, as he brushed a loose curl out of his eyes in vain. It fell right back down in front his face, but he pretend not to notice. 

Benny popped another bubble, looking him up and down with lazy indifference. “Say, Meyer, who’s this clown?”

The eager smile plummeted into a scowl. Charlie scoffed, glancing between the pair of them, indignant. “What, this your kid brother or somethin’?” he snarked to Meyer, jerking his thumb at Benny as though he couldn’t hear. 

Benny bristled, shoving forward. “Hey, who you fuckin’ callin’ a kid, greaseball? I’m no fuckin’ kid—I got four inches on him, even!” 

“Yeah, bet that ain’t the only four inches you got—” Charlie snapped back, chest-to-chest.

“Hey! Hey, watch it!” Meyer shoved between them, pushing them apart. “I said, _watch it_!” They stopped struggling and froze in place, exchanging glares and warning looks over the top of his head. “You hear me?” he said again, slower, more controlled, but no less firm, as he looked between them. He had the scruff of Benny’s shirt in his free hand and his other elbow in Charlie’s gut, shoving him back. His books wobbled precariously in his grasp; Charlie caught them and steadied the stack under Meyer’s arm. 

On his other side, Benny huffed and yanked himself out of Meyer’s grip. He took a step back, fixing his collar as he silently prowled from side to side, shooting disdainful looks. Meyer sighed, dropped his hand, and turned to Charlie. “What _do_ you want, exactly?” he asked, looking up at him with a hard stare. “Or do you just like harassing anyone you find on your way to school?” 

Charlie sniffed, tugging on the bottom hem of his jacket as he returned Benny’s glare. “Maybe I don’t want nothin’,” he shrugged, burrowing his hands in his pockets. He squinted past Meyer’s shoulder at the brick of the school building, like he’d all but forgotten they were there and couldn’t be bothered. 

His nonchalance was not convincing. Meyer’s brow arched. 

But before he could ask Charlie how long he planned on posing like some pretty boy on a magazine cover, more shouting filled the air around them. Meyer’s head snapped towards the sound, as a boy let out a raucous whoop, racing over and slapping Charlie on the back. Four others fell into place around them, encircling, smirking. 

A girl—dark hair curled and teased—slung her arm around Charlie’s neck, twirling a cigarette in circles with her teeth, as she glanced down at Meyer. “Cute kid, where’d you find him?” she said with a smile that made Meyer want to smack her cigarette to the ground. His hand twitched. 

The other boys circled around them, prowling. One of them looked downright hungry, another seemed to crackle with an electric current of energy. Someone sniggered. 

In a flash, Meyer thrust his books into Benny’s arms and rolled his sleeves. “What, don’t have it in you to mess with somebody on your own? Don’t got the nerve?” he spat, glaring at Charlie and stepping right up to him. Meyer craned his neck, meeting his eye with an unflinching stare, even though he was a head shorter. Charlie’s gang “ooooh”d with excitement. Five against two didn’t bother him. Charlie didn’t have much meat on him; Meyer figured he could take him down fast. 

But instead of throwing an insult or a punch, Charlie opened and closed his mouth several times, succeeding only in making several bewildered sounds instead of an actual sentence. He regained his footing after a few stammering starts and rounded on his friends. “Hey, shove off, alright? What’re you comin’ and botherin’ me for?” Charlie demanded, shrugging out of the girl’s arm and slapping one guy in the chest. 

“Hey, c’mon, we just wanna see what’s goin’ on,” said a squat—and frankly stupid-looking—kid with pockmarked acne, who rolled his shoulders like he was squaring up for a fight. He spat on the ground and Charlie rolled his eyes at him. 

“So’s you follow me, huh? You my fuckin’ shadow? We’re havin’ a conversation, alright? Shove off,” Charlie snapped, gesturing between himself and Meyer. He clapped a hand on Meyer’s shoulder and Meyer had to fight the urge to break his fingers. 

“Doesn’t look like a conversation to me,” drawled another boy with a deep tan and dark eyes that were one shade shy of handsome and two steps towards dangerous. He quirked an eyebrow, glancing between Meyer and Benny as though considering their odds. Meyer’s fist clenched, more than eager to show him he’d figured them wrong.

“You have a bowl of stupid for breakfast, or your ears not workin’ right, huh? I said shove off!” 

Grudging silence fell, punctuated only by Benny snapping his gum. But the boys had stopped circling. They looked even dumber standing helpless, uncomprehending but unable to think for themselves any better. This was a script they didn’t know how to follow. 

“ _Thank you,”_ Charlie sighed. “Now, my friend here and I got somethin’ we gotta talk about. Ain’t that right, M—” Charlie hesitated for a moment, glancing his way, a little helpless. “Meyer! That’s it, Meyer. My friend Meyer and I gotta talk, so go fuck off someplace else, alright?” 

The stupid-looking one opened his mouth to protest, but the girl shot him a look. “Leave it, Vito. C’mon,” she said, with a wave of her hand that shepherded them away, though even she didn’t look convinced. Charlie’s gang shot backwards glances as they retreated—confused and leering, none of them happy. Meyer didn’t look away or drop his glare until they were several yards away and well out of range.

Charlie shook his head with a sigh, opened his mouth, until his gaze fell on Benny and he scowled. “Come on, only fair, I got rid’a mine, you get rid’a yours.” 

“Hey, nobody’s gettin’ rid—”

“It’s fine, Benny,” Meyer said, holding up his hand. He looked Charlie up and down. Maybe he appreciated a fair fight, or maybe Meyer had misjudged his intentions. Either way, he could handle it. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

Pointedly, Benny dropped Meyer’s books on the ground with a heavy thud. Charlie rolled his eyes as Benny left with some colorful parting remarks and a few vicious backwards glances of his own. 

“So,” Charlie said, as soon as they were alone. His expression shifted from rabid guard dog to a puppy that had been on its own too long. It was a startling shift in demeanor. He licked his lips, rocking a little on his heels. In an urgent murmur, like his life depended on it, he asked, “How, uh—how’s she comin’? I’m gettin’ her back soon, right?” 

Of course. His car. What else? 

“What, you need to take your girlfriend out for a ride?” Meyer asked dryly, the words acrid as they touched the air. 

He wouldn’t admit to any satisfaction at the deep dip that formed on Charlie’s brow. Meyer nodded stiffly in the direction of Charlie’s friends. They were out of earshot, but Meyer wasn’t about to let them out of his sight. They gathered on the back steps of the school, the girl smoking while the boys roughhoused and climbed around on the railings. 

“Oh! Who, Bills? No, she—I mean, she’s great, but that’d be like takin’ out my sister, you know what I’m sayin’? Besides,” Charlie continued, before Meyer could admit that _no, he had no idea, thanks_ , “You got the only girl I need.” 

“Beg pardon?” Meyer blinked. 

“You know. Bambi. In your shop. She’s ready, right?” Charlie continued, surprising with his earnest, one-track mind. Meyer’s thoughts were still stuck on the girl comment. He shook his head, jostling himself back to the present. This day was already bordering on strange, and he hadn’t even been to his locker yet. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Before Charlie’s eyebrows could furrow so far down that they fell off his face completely, he added, “Haven’t been to the garage since Friday.” 

“How come?” he said, with a note of accusation as though Meyer had abandoned Charlie’s own mother on the side of the road. 

“Well, I don’t work Saturdays and they’re closed on Sundays. Today’s Monday, in case you weren’t sure,” he explained flatly.

Charlie huffed. “Hey, I know what day of the week it is. I’m not dumb or nothin’.” 

Meyer’s mouth turned upwards, but he wouldn’t call it a smile. Judging by Charlie’s expression, he wouldn’t either. 

“I’m _not,_ ” Charlie insisted, grumbling. But his face quirked into a lopsided smirk, pushing away any seriousness from the moment. “I mean, I ain’t a square like you, but just cause I ain’t no whizz kid, don’t mean I got rocks for brains.” 

Maybe it defeated the point of the question, but Meyer stooped to gather his books from the lawn, asking, “What makes you think I am?”

Charlie shrugged and scowled good-naturedly—which, before meeting him, Meyer wasn't sure anybody could do. “I dunno. You just look like one. I almost didn’t recognize you all cleaned up. You know, without all that car stuff. You, uh—” he hesitated, licking his lips again “—well, I guess you clean up nice. Square, but nice.” 

“I _think_ that’s a compliment?” Meyer teased, though he genuinely couldn’t tell. He wasn’t exactly used to people paying his appearance compliments, especially when a moment ago, Meyer thought that person had been trying to corner him into a fight and he’d been fully prepared to break his pretty nose.

Behind them, the tinny clang of the school bell rang out over the yard. Most kids gathered their things and headed inside. Charlie’s friends—Meyer noted—made no such move. 

“Anyway, if that’s all…” Meyer mumbled, unsure how to end this unexpected and rather unwanted conversation. “Come by the garage later, Charlie. Your car should be ready.” 

He cocked his head. “You called me Charlie?” 

Meyer blinked. “That’s—your name, isn’t it?” His mind thought back on the rack of keys in the shop, all labeled with the name of their owners. Had he looked at the wrong tag?

“Yeah, only… a lotta my friends, they call me Lucky,” he said, bowing his head a little as he said it and looking at Meyer, expectant. “You know, like a nickname. You gotta have a nickname.” 

“Somehow, I missed that requirement,” Meyer answered dryly. “Most people do this unusual thing where they use my real name.” 

Charlie’s mouth quirked sideways, contemplating. “We’ll get you hip somehow, Little Man,” he teased, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Meantime, let’s get you to class. I hear you ain’t s’posed to be late for that.” 

“And yet, I get the feeling that you usually _are_ ,” Meyer commented, quipping to avoid how little he knew what to do with Charlie’s _arm_ on his _shoulder_. 

“Only on days that end in Y,” Charlie grinned. 

Meyer snorted—not because it was funny, but because of how unabashedly _unfunny_ it was. For a guy who wore his hair like that and drove around in a nice car, Charlie was the least cool person Meyer had ever met. Maybe he wasn’t the best judge, but there was something too genuine about him, too transparent, despite his efforts. He could pout into the sunset all he wanted; Meyer saw right through his posturing and his bad jokes. It seemed like nobody else did—since Charlie _did_ have a reputation—but Meyer wasn’t fooled a second. 

Charlie kept his arm around Meyer’s shoulder, crook of his elbow resting against the back of his neck. Their hips knocked as they walked, a little too close together. Meyer swallowed, his whole body tensed at the unexpected closeness—and at the inquisitive eyes that caught sight of the pair of them heading into school together. 

“Am I gonna see you around or somethin’?” Charlie asked as they trudged up the cement steps. He shoved the door open with his foot. 

“What d’you want that for?” Meyer asked, furrowing his brow and tilting his chin to look up at Charlie, who avoided his eyes. 

“I dunno. Can't a fella ask a simple question?” 

But it didn’t seem simple to Meyer—or to Charlie, who kept his eyes firmly ahead as they passed down the hallway. Meyer stopped. He took a step back, out of Charlie’s arm and hopefully out of everyone’s gaze, and gestured over his shoulder. “I’m heading this way,” he lied. 

He hesitated, unsure if there was something else he ought to say here. They didn’t have anything in common, besides Meyer working under his hood. But apart from that, Meyer had good grades; he worked hard, so he could go to a good school, be something, because that’s how you kept the lights on and the roof over your head. He had a job too, picked up bread on his way home with his earnings, didn’t even have a curfew because there wasn’t anywhere else for him to be. 

And there was Charlie, an Italian boy with a fashionable haircut and sharp style, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the linoleum, chin tilted down and looking up at Meyer from under his lashes. It was easy to imagine he skated by on his charm. 

But why, of all people, was he bothering with Meyer? 

Meyer sighed and swallowed. It was stupid. He didn’t do stupid things, but it was stupid. He was about to be stupid. “I’ll catch you later?” he said, hesitant. 

Charlie perked up, his grin stretched broad and sincere as any Meyer’d ever seen. “Sounds swell, Little Man.” 


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed like an eternity until end of the school day, until the last clang of the bell. Of course, school was always a drag, but Charlie had an extra itch under his skin that day. The moment his last class ended, he shoved his way out of the door, pulling his jacket on in the hall. The teacher hadn’t finished going over the reading assignment yet, but it wasn’t like he planned on doing it anyway. Besides, there were more important things on his mind. 

Unfortunately, the school wasn’t exactly around the corner from the mechanic. He felt stupid, cutting across the school lawn at a brisk stride. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, he turned down a residential street. The breeze was warm as it rustled the leaves, tinged in yellow. It was the time of year with crisp mornings and bright sunny afternoons. Not that it made much difference to Charlie, as the same jacket hugged his shoulders no matter what the sky decided to do. 

The street was quiet in a way that bothered him. Each little house—square fronted, steep pitch roof, two gables watching in an unblinking suburban stare—lined the road with a neat lawn out front. It was too early for the kids to be back from school and the driveways stretched empty, cars and fathers absent. 

Charlie fished the lighter from his pocket, lit up a cigarette, and exhaled. There was a housewife out fetching the mail, a toddler tucked up under one arm and perched on her hip. She eyed him suspiciously as he passed; Charlie left a stream of smoke in his wake. 

It would be good to have his car back. The weekend was lousy without it. Sure, he could get a ride from one of his friends, but that wasn’t the point. That car was _his_. It was more his than anything else in the world—more than the bedroom he shared with his brother, that was for sure. He’d slept stretched out across the backseat on more than one occasion, the crook of his arm as a pillow. It was privacy, it was freedom, and there was nothing stopping him from driving and driving until he was towns away. Even though he never did, he liked knowing he could—that he could do anything he wanted, so long as he had his car. 

When he finally reached the garage, its front wide open, Charlie quickened his pace, a thud in his veins. And there she was inside, waiting for him, good as new. She didn’t look that different, although it seemed like somebody had given her a wash. The chrome on her hood ornament gleamed in a way it hadn’t when he dropped the car off. Or maybe she just looked extra nice to him, after their time apart. 

He rubbed his thumb over the curve of her rearview mirror, smiling. 

“How come I always find you like this?” 

Charlie whipped around, withdrawing his hand. But the scowl he would have given anyone else broke into an easy grin. “Well, if ain’t my favorite mechanic,” he said. Meyer wasn’t _as_ greasy as the last time Charlie’d seen him at the garage. His work shirt was still crisp, even. “Wait—hang on. What’re you doin’ here?” 

Meyer raised an eyebrow, heaving a large metal toolbox from the floor to a bench. “I work here, remember?” 

Charlie scoffed and shook his head. He knew _that_ much. “Yeah, but school _just_ ended. How come you beat me here?” 

Without looking at him, too busy sifting through supplies, Meyer said flatly, “I walk very fast.”

Charlie smirked, looking him up and down. “With those little legs?” 

That crack was worth it for the glare Meyer shot over his shoulder. “Did you come here for your car or a conversation?” 

“Well, I came for my car. Wasn’t countin’ on findin’ you playin’ hooky,” he grinned, leaning back against Bambi’s hood, crossing one leg over the other. He wasn’t going to let Meyer out-talk him _this_ time. 

“I am not playing hooky,” Meyer muttered. “I had—My teachers knew I wouldn’t be in class this afternoon. I informed them that I had an appointment. That’s not the same as playing hooky.” 

Charlie laughed, as incredulous as he was delighted. “You _lied_ to get outta class. That’s _exactly_ playin’ hooky.”

“So I could work extra hours! It’s not like I’m cutting class to go… I don’t know, fondle my car, or whatever you do,” Meyer grumbled, with a glare in Charlie’s direction. 

“I don’t _fondle_ _my car_ ,” Charlie scoffed, but Meyer looked unconvinced as he unscrewed a clamp. “Look, if I’m playin’ hooky to fondle anything, it ain’t my car,” he added with a smirk. That was another perk of having some privacy, after all. 

Meyer grimaced. “We are not continuing this conversation.” 

“Playin’ hooky… And here I thought you was a straight-A student,” Charlie tutted, teasing. The square was getting less square with each passing minute. “So much for good little Meyer.” 

“I _am_ a straight-A student,” he shot back; the terse _thank-you-very-much_ was implied. 

Charlie frowned. “But you’re skippin’ class?” Good kids who got good grades didn’t skip class. There were kids who cared too much and kids who didn’t care at all—and Meyer was the first, while Charlie was the second. It was the natural order.

Meyer shrugged, unconcerned, as he adjusted and readjusted the clamp. “My teachers like me. I’m able to make up the work. They don’t really mind.” 

“You’re kiddin’. You mean they let you skip class if they like you?” Charlie stared at Meyer as he worked, trying to figure that idea through. Jeez, he’d been getting it all wrong this whole time. And here he’d been making fun of the suck-ups and brown-nosing kids, but they had the whole system figured out. 

“I think they’ve got bigger concerns than my missing a few classes here and there,” Meyer said, looking back at Charlie significantly. “Like finding an entire carton of rotten eggs hidden in their classroom.” 

“You heard about that, huh? Course, it wasn’t my idea or nothin’,” he amended, which was technically true. If nothing else, it hadn’t been _his_ idea. Charlie shook his head, drumming his fingers against the door of his car. He still couldn’t figure this little Meyer out. He wouldn’t have pegged him as a playing hooky guy—even if it was for a job. He wasn’t like anybody else, that was for sure. “So… what’s a guy like you doin’ after he’s done playin’ hooky?” 

“I am _not_ playing—” Meyer sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’m not fondling your car, I can say that much.” 

Charlie laughed. “No, I’ll be doin’ that,” he said, and then winced. “Not—I don’t mean—Drivin’, you know.” He sighed. So much for not letting Meyer talk rings around him. He had a way of doing that. It was his _look_ , Charlie figured—like those keen dark eyes were seeing straight through him. “But what about you?” 

“Are you always this curious?” Meyer sighed and then muttered, “I’m running errands, if you must know.” 

“Errands, huh? Gee, just when I was startin’ to think maybe you was cool.” 

Meyer shook his head and returned to his task, sorting through a selection of sockets until he found the one he needed. “It’s called responsibility. Go pay for your car, I have work to do.” He waved his hand in the direction of the little office off the side of the garage. 

“Aw, you mean you’re not gettin’ me no discount?” Charlie pouted, crossing to lean on Meyer’s bench. He didn’t like being easy to ignore. 

Meyer, however, excelled at it. “I think you need to spend some time alone with your car.” 

Charlie stretched his hand in front of Meyer’s face, grabbing a wrench from the top of the toolbox and tossing it from hand to hand. “I ain’t ever alone when I got my Bambi.” 

With a glare Charlie was starting to see quite often, Meyer snatched the wrench back out of his grasp. He dropped it into the box with a clank. “I don’t want to know these things about you.” 

Charlie smiled and shook his head. There was something that felt good about pushing his buttons. He didn’t want to make fun of him or anything like that. But Meyer had a quick wit sharper than anybody Charlie knew. And when Meyer was glaring up at him—well, he wasn’t like anybody else, that was for sure. 

He turned to his car, running his hand along the length of her hood. The smooth, cool surface felt familiar under his finger tips. He exhaled, eager to get behind the wheel again.On his way to pick up his keys, Charlie glanced back at Meyer one last time. Over his shoulder and the noise of the garage, he called, “See ya later, Little Man.”

Meyer didn’t look up, but he could see his smirk. “Is that a threat?” he called back. 

Charlie laughed.

* * *

 

Meyer cleaned himself off as best he could after his shift, scrubbing the grime from under his fingers with the worn sliver of soap in the cramped, stale bathroom. His work shirt hung on a peg in the back of the garage. Cupping his hands, he splashed water against his face, again and again, the droplets running in rivulets down his neck. He pressed his face into the fabric of his undershirt before pulling on a fresh shirt and doing up the buttons with clean hands.

He could hardly go to the store covered in sweat and engine oil. Even when he was going straight home, Meyer liked to tidy up before he left; he didn’t like bringing home the mess for his mother to scrub out of the tub. 

Though he wasn’t completely clean, he was at least presentable. He grabbed his bag and his books, said goodnight to the owner, and headed out into the cool evening breeze, damp strands of hair still clinging to his forehead. 

He stopped in his tracks. 

Parked right outside the garage, along the curb, was a blue Chevrolet Bel Air. Meyer sighed; he didn’t know what to make of this guy. He was persistent—there was no doubt about that—and the way he looked at Meyer… He couldn’t say what it was, but there was something genuine, like he actually enjoyed his company. It was a look that lodged itself in his lungs, a tight knot that clenched and expanded all at once. Of course, Meyer could feel the other shoe dangling above his head waiting to drop. There had to be something, some reason for it. At least Charlie was alone in his car, not waiting to ambush Meyer again with his maniac friends. 

Alone and waving at him. 

So there’d be no backtracking through the garage and going out the back, then. Shaking his head, Meyer approached, as he watched Charlie’s arm rotate in a frenzy to roll down the window. “What is it?” he called to him. He'd give Charlie the benefit of the doubt; maybe he was still having issues with the car and wanted to get it back before the garage closed. 

Charlie just smiled crookedly at him from behind the steering wheel. “Figured I’d give you a lift.” 

Meyer’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his bag, holding it tighter in his grip. “Why?” 

“Why?” Charlie repeated back at him, his thick brow furrowing. “Cause I—well, you—” He didn’t seem to have thought through the eventuality that Meyer wouldn’t hop right inside. He frowned, as though he hadn’t even considered the _why_ himself. “To say thank you, you know? For fixing my car. ‘Cause you gotta run errands and it’s gettin’ late.” 

While the sky was dimming to inky darkness around them, Meyer hesitated. Charlie fidgeted with the key ring that dangled from the ignition, glancing at Meyer and then away again.

“I was just doing my job,” Meyer said slowly. “I don’t see you taking out any of the other mechanics, either.” 

Charlie scowled, wrapping and unwrapping his fingers around the steering wheel. “Hey, I’m  tryin’a help you out here! Besides, it’s a _favor_ , not a date,” he emphasized, staring out the front windshield. 

Meyer raised an eyebrow. “That _distinction_ wasn’t what I was concerned about, actually.” Of all the questions he had running through his mind, misconstruing Charlie’s bizarre actions as a _date_ had not even entered into the equation. But he couldn't admit that he was more concerned Charlie wanted a new punching bag—which would end worse for him than for Meyer, but a fight wasn't worth the hassle. There was also the more mild but equally frustrating possibility that Charlie wanted someone to do his homework or fix his car for free. It would hardly be the first time. 

Though if he were using him, Charlie seemed like someone who’d be able to turn on the charm. But he was far from suave, too sincere and stumbling for someone putting on an act. The nervous sincerity was more disconcerting. 

“I’m tryin’ to say thanks, okay?” Charlie mumbled, more to himself than to Meyer. 

He sighed. It _was_ getting late, and he had homework to do after his errands. It would be faster if Charlie drove him, and therefore more practical. He knew his mother would appreciate it if the groceries arrived faster. Plus, she worried about him walking everywhere, especially after dark.“Alright. Fine.” 

He caught sight of Charlie’s smile as he crossed around the front of the car and got in on the passenger side. 

Charlie turned to him, one hand on the wheel, the other stretched out along the back of the bench seat. The interior smelled like his cigarettes and his aftershave. After all their conversation about Charlie’s car, Meyer could hardly believe they were sitting in it—the two of them, alone. Meyer sat down as close to the passenger door as he could. 

“So, where to?” Charlie asked. 

“I need to pick up a few groceries,” he muttered as he fumbled with the clasp on the lap belt. 

Charlie nodded, put the car in drive, and set out down the street. Along the roadside, shops and businesses glowed in dim yellow halos of light. They drove in silence, Meyer determined to keep his eyes on the world outside. A couple with a baby carriage stopped under the wide red awning of a hobby shop, peering in through the glass at the display. Three doors down, a trim man in a suit locked up the doors to the bank. Everything seemed so still, the world in perfect alignment, in contrast to the thrumming in Meyer’s stomach as thoughts turned around and around in his head.

A week ago, Charlie had been a stranger to him. He was a face he recognized, but not someone real—with a car, a smile, a laugh he knew, an aftershave he could smell. Worse still, Charlie had quickly become someone who knew too much about him. He knew where he worked, his grades, that he cut class to pick up extra hours. He didn’t need Charlie also knowing the food his family ate and where they lived, though it seemed inevitable he would find that out, too.

“Turn here,” Meyer piped up. 

Charlie glanced at him and then returned his eyes to the road. “We’re not goin’ to the King Kullen?” 

Meyer shook his head and pointed to the road ahead, where houses peppered the street between the storefronts. He directed Charlie the rest of the way, asking him to stop as they passed the small storefront of the kosher butcher. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Meyer said, hurrying from the car. If Charlie was going to pull this lost puppy routine, there was only so far he’d let him trail. The last thing Meyer wanted was to be seen palling around with a goyische hoodlum. The butcher would tell his mother—and many other people’s mothers—and he’d never hear the end of _who is that boy, why were you in his car, how do you know him, what’s his date of birth and middle name and grade point average_. 

It was better if he went alone. 

On any other night, Meyer tried not to linger for smalltalk or gossip, but he was always polite. _How do you do, yes the family is well, thank you for asking, have a good evening_. But impatience burned in his veins that night as he waited at the counter, one finger betraying him as it tapped in staccato against the glass case. He didn’t trust that Charlie wouldn’t get bored and come waltzing in. He seemed to be showing up a lot lately, no matter where Meyer went, like an overly pomaded shadow. 

He kept throwing glances at the door as he paid for everything on his mother’s grocery list, then thanked the man behind the counter and returned to the car at a brisk clip. 

The car hadn’t moved and neither had Charlie, who was leaning out the driver’s side window to fix his hair in the rearview mirror. A cigarette dangled between his lips, a faint frown on his face.

“Do you ever stop concerning yourself with looking handsome?” Meyer asked, as he climbed into the car with arms full of groceries. 

Charlie pulled his head back into the car, a lopsided smirk behind the cigarette. A thick curl succumbed to gravity, until it hit his forehead. “You sayin’ I’m handsome?”

Meyer moved the brown paper bag from his lap to the seat between them with a loud rustle. “I’m saying you’re conceited,” he amended, grateful Charlie couldn’t see the heat rise in his cheeks in the darkness of the car. 

“You ever stop bein’ a smart-aleck?” Charlie shot back, taking a drag. 

He shrugged. “Not when you make it so easy.” 

Charlie shook his head; he half-raised his hand to his hair, thought better of it, and grabbed the wheel instead. “Where to next, wisenheimer?"

Meyer hesitated. “You don’t have to drive me around. I can walk home from here.” He had done it many times before, after all. Sometimes he liked the walk. The evening breeze, the solitude—it cleared his head. Besides, he needed the fresh air after lying on his back under a car all afternoon. 

But Charlie only frowned, gesturing to the groceries on the seat between them. “Come on, that’s a lot to carry.” 

“It’s _really_ not.” It was only two bags and they were far from heavy—not for Meyer, at any rate. 

Charlie chuckled in agreement. “That’s true. I seen your arms. Bet you could pick me up like it’s nothin’.” Meyer glanced at him and Charlie cleared his throat, exhaling smoke. “Look,” he said, too emphatically, hurrying the conversation along. “You took care of my car. Let me at least get you home, alright?” 

“No funny business?” Meyer asked.

“Yeah, I’m gonna rob you blind of all your groceries,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes and putting the car in drive. Meyer grudgingly accepted by buckling his seatbelt. 

They didn’t speak as they drove back down the street, except for Meyer’s comment to turn left, keep going until the bank on the corner. It was an easy route home, so Meyer did not have much to say. 

The car slowed to a halt at a red light, the silence settling over the hum of the motor as Meyer kept his eyes forward. Charlie had one elbow leaning out the open window, while his fingers drummed up and down the steering wheel as he waited. “Hey, how come you don’t like me?” he asked. 

“What?” 

Charlie finished the end of his cigarette and dropped it out the open window, forcing a teasing grin. But by the look on his face as he snuck a glance at Meyer, his question wasn’t insincere. “Just seem like you don’t like me much, that’s all.” 

Meyer swallowed, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. There was a patch of dirt on the side of his left hand that he’d missed. Reluctantly, he admitted, “If I didn’t like you, you’d know.” 

“What, you mean you get surlier than this?” Charlie asked, incredulous.

Meyer smirked. “It doesn’t seem to put you off any.” 

“Yeah well…” Charlie muttered, pressing the pedal as the light changed. “Maybe I just like playin’ chauffeur.” 

“I thought you liked mechanics,” Meyer pointed out and Charlie said nothing. The temptation to lapse back into silence was strong, but it still nagged at Meyer, tugging in his gut. “I still didn’t do anything special. Fixing your car is just my job. You didn’t have to stay out late running errands with me, when I’m sure you should be getting home.”

Charlie scoffed. “If there’s anything I gotta be doin’, it ain’t that.” He sighed, staring ahead at the road, the passing streetlights illuminating his face in brief patches of light. Charlie bit his lip, working it under his teeth for a moment, before he shook his head, chasing his thoughts in order. “I dunno… You know cars, yeah, but then I see you at school, lookin’ like a real teacher’s pet, but goin’ and tryin’ clock me in the jaw anyway. I guess I just don’t know nobody like you.”

Meyer swallowed. “You seem to have plenty of friends,” he said, just a little terse. The memory from that morning of Charlie’s pack of prowling, hungry dogs didn’t fade fast. Meyer wasn’t one to forget the look of threat in someone’s eyes.

But Charlie only shrugged. “Billie’s alright. But the other guys are kinda assholes, ya know?” 

“I noticed,” he replied, flatly. “So why do you hang out with them?” 

Charlie shrugged again. “You ask a lotta questions.”

“ _Me?_ I’m not the one who—take the next left—keeps turning up at your place of employment.” And he thought _Meyer_ asked a lot of questions? In one short week, Charlie had coaxed personal information out of Meyer that most people besides his own family and Benny didn’t even know about him. 

“Hey, you had my car!” Charlie snapped back, as he made an indignant left-hand turn onto Meyer’s street. “I didn’t have a lotta choice.” 

“But you chose to wait for me,” Meyer pointed out. “You had your car back. Yet here we are.” 

Charlie didn’t look at him, but Meyer didn’t look away, as they continued slowly down the familiar, residential street. He could tell by the look on his face that Charlie was stumped. It was hard to believe he’d already learned his tics and expressions. Though considering Charlie wore his emotions so plainly, it couldn’t be helped if Meyer read him as easily as his physics textbook. 

“I’m the house up ahead, on the right. The brown one,” Meyer said quietly, and Charlie slowed the car to a halt along the curb.

The warm lights of the living room seeped through the windows and onto the hedges in front of the house. Inside, he knew his mother was preparing dinner, Jake at the table doing his homework, his sisters playing on the worn rug in front of the couch. He wondered if his father was home yet. 

“Hey, if you ever need a ride, just lemme know,” Charlie said as Meyer gathered his belongings. In the dark interior of the car, his eyes flit to and from Meyer’s face like a moth to an exposed bulb. He paused, licked his lips, and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s what friends are for, right?” 

Meyer blinked at him, the words seeming to filter slowly through his mind. But he nodded, feeling a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “Right,” he agreed. “Thank you.” 

They smiled at one another, as Meyer climbed out of the car, groceries in one arm, books in the other. He lingered on the sidewalk as the car drove down the street, disappearing around the corner. But even as the twin lights of his car vanished from view, they still buoyed in Meyer’s lungs, clutched in place by the bags he hugged to his chest. 

He couldn’t say that he’d ever ask Charlie for a ride. He didn’t like to ask for things, especially not from a stranger—no, a friend. But somehow, there was comfort in knowing that he could. He liked the thought of that familiar blue car waiting for him. 


End file.
